<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>bitter melty chocolate by eraserheadbaby</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038034">bitter melty chocolate</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/eraserheadbaby/pseuds/eraserheadbaby'>eraserheadbaby</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Lysiclaude Week (Fire Emblem), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:13:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,026</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/eraserheadbaby/pseuds/eraserheadbaby</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>That night, Claude dreams of fudgy cakes, pouty faces and bloody handkerchiefs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lysithea von Ordelia/Claude von Riegan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>LysiClaude Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>bitter melty chocolate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for lysiclaude week, day 6, free day. sorry for not posting on the proper day uni exams are mercilessly kicking my ass</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So, should we make this official at this point? Let me put it on my agenda from now on: meet Lysithea, every day, at the most ungodly hour of the night.”</p><p>“Given that you're the one that keeps coming here when I'm just reading on my own, I'd say you have no place to complain. And do you even keep an agenda?”</p><p>Lysithea hasn't even spared him a glance yet; head bent over a thick book and hand delicately folded under her chin, she's the perfect picture of an elegant, diligent student. Claude, though, is much more taken by the swinging of her short legs, hidden under dark leggings and accentuated by shoes that cutely betray their small size, that he can faintly point out under the big desk. The guileless act siphons cheerfulness through the rigid room.</p><p>And with this warmth mellowly heating up the atmosphere, he finally lets himself in. He has already approached Lysithea enough to make out some of the complex spells on the pages in front of her, when he remembers he was just spoken to. “Hey, I'm not complaining in the least. It was just a humorous observation.”</p><p>“You have a weird definition of humorous.” Sarcasm drips from her words like poison, like honey, for Claude has not heard a more succoring sound all day.</p><p>“Well, what is it?”</p><p>For the next minute, it's just him, her, and the question that she set off like a gunshot through the night.</p><p>Good question, Lysithea. What is “it” that made him come here? After all, he was just lying in bed mere minutes ago, perfectly relaxed.</p><p>Relaxed, just with aching bruises all over his body, just with his ears thundering with the sound of weapons and spells. Just with his heart lurching from the fact that his ears weren't thundering enough at this point.</p><p>He'd gotten up from his bed, strolled through the sleeping corridors as stealthily as he could. Light shone his way, and when he realized it came from the library, he followed it like a lost ship to the beacon, clueless to what he was even looking for until he was met with that white hair splaying silver under the desk lamp.</p><p>But Claude now has to testify, and these are crimes he has no alibi for - it's time for perjury. “Come on, Lysithea. Do I need to reason to grace you with my presence? I mean, besides reminding you to go to bed like I'm your dad or something.”</p><p>“Ugh, so you came here just to annoy me?!” Oh boy, he's done it now – Lysithea is unable to cope with him anymore, and retreats to her readings once more.</p><p>She sighs deeply through the nose, lets the edge of the book crease as she flips onto the next page. And Claude watches as the aged paper slides through her finger.</p><p>He's still watching when the pad spurts blood and the paper marinates in red, only opening his drying mouth when he notices Lysithea is still reading her bloodstained book, impassive and at peace.</p><p>“Lysithea... Your finger...”</p><p>A raise of the eyebrows, a slight frown. When she finally looks at her wounded finger, it's like she just glanced at a speck of dust. “Oh. That's nothing.”</p><p>“How can it be nothing?! You're bleeding!”</p><p>Lysithea's punitive expression he could foresee, but not the absolution of her words. “It doesn't hurt.”</p><p>Somehow, Claude knows she's not lying at all, and that quashes whatever he could say deeper down his throat.</p><p>He searches in his pockets, maybe for something to occupy his hands, maybe for a trump card like always. The Goddess' mercy comes in a piece of black cotton, and he wastes no time offering the handkerchief to Lysithea. “At least clean up the wound...Please.”</p><p>“What, scared of a little blood?” Her quip dies out as quickly as it came.</p><p>Torn between her and the floor, Claude's eyes finally settle for the handkerchief; between her hands, with their movements acute and mechanized, it looks so ropy and gritty.</p><p>Lysithea's a warrior, a hell of a good one at that. Should it come as a surprise that she's this methodical with cleaning wounds? Claude has seen her get them with his own eyes, has seen the axes and swords swing in front of her face, the spells blast on her feet. </p><p>But here is no battlefield, and here there are no axes and no swords and no spells. Doesn't she deserve a spotless hand – a spotless hand and a smile?</p><p>Doesn't he deserve to see her smile?</p><p>“You really should go to sleep now,” he tries to toughen his rickety voice and hopes it works. “And I'll be going too, so rejoice, Lysithea! Even though I'm sad we didn't have one of our invigorating chats, you're spared from me tonight.” </p><p>It's not like he can simply tell her he just found out that he can't bear looking at her hurting like this.</p><p>“Wow, the Goddess is just smiling down upon me.”</p><p>Scrambling to defend his slippery comfort at this matter-of-course answer, he turns to get out; Lysithea stops him on his tracks. “...Your handkerchief?”</p><p>His eyes wander to it again, and only now does he notice how pretty it looks in her petite hands. “You can keep it,” he says as he leaves. Part of him is with her now, an intrinsic invader remarks.</p><p>Claude walks to his room, and the library is well behind him now. But he's still there somehow, staring at Lysithea's face and feeling its misery skewer him to the core.</p><p>Somewhere else, Lysithea grouches adorably at his teasing, digs her fork in yet another piece of her favorite cake when she thinks no one's looking, and smiles.</p><p>Here and now, Claude knows where he would rather be. To get there, though, he has to leave himself behind, his self as he fashioned it from titanic ambitions, sheer survival instinct and raw schemes and calculations. He can't have both, he knows he can't.</p><p>That night, Claude dreams of fudgy cakes, pouty faces and bloody handkerchiefs.</p><p>It's as if his dreams want to make the choice for him.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>